Heads or Tails
by The Huntress1
Summary: Not so Pre-DCnU anymore as I've mentioned Titus, the dog, but still 95% old-continuity.  Alas, Damian comes home in a less than honorable fashion and Kitrina seeks guidance from another familiar figure.
1. Chapter 1

**The Half Moon Diner, Gotham City**

She let her eyes drift over the hunched figure across the booth's table, the nibbled fingernails, those wide eyes and that awful, red-cheeked scowl that could only be described as scurrilous.

Selina shrugged inwardly and took several deep breaths, hell, if _someone_ didn't do it, it would not get done...well, then again, that depended upon what one meant by _it_. _It_ was the subject of their entire conversation. And despite her general misgivings and the fact that there was pretty much no way either of them _wasn't_ going to walk away completely humiliated, they had to have the talk.

She let her mind teeter, however briefly, to the events surrounding her own coming of age. Lots of jagged edges centered on a monotonous whole, a brief milestone spent dodging the vice squad, snatch and grabs and greasy johns all against the backdrop of the mid-seventies to the early eighties. Glam was running full steam then and she'd spent more than one night squeezing her tiny frame into halter tops and strapping on spiked and platform heels. She was scared but sensible too and she'd never picked up any interest in drugs. Too, by the Grace of God, she had managed to never contract anything more serious than lice on more than one occasion...head and otherwise.

She grimaced despite herself, that was all a lifetime ago. More importantly, that description did not even remotely fit the image of this young girl. Selina wasn't even really sure how old the kid was. The Roman had been dead all of twenty years, but that subject rarely came up between them.

She had never felt comfortable venturing _too_ far into the girl's-it was still hard to think of her as a sister, even now-background. What little Selina could glean regarding her tastes involved lots of animal print accessories and a tried and true penchant for responding with acid sarcasm to even the most banal question. A young adult, and faithful to its tenets, the girl slept for marathon hours. And despite an appetite that could rival a swarm of locusts, hardly any fat seemed to stick to that too skinny frame. Kitrina otherwise worked out and matched Selina's younger self in one particular aspect to a T. She skipped school, constantly. This couldn't have been a surprise given her past isolation spent with Mario, but her instructors at Gotham City Community College seldom saw her before exams.

She frowned, realizing the uncomfortable silence between them had stretched beyond several minutes. Their mugs of hot chocolate arrived and Selina decided to simply plunge in headfirst, "I've noticed a certain...habit lately. You've, hm, been lingering a bit wherever a certain young man comes into view."

The girl's eyes widened and she slouched deeply, arms folded behind her mug, "You must be mistaken."

Selina nodded wisely, "This morning's Sunday Times happened to turn itself to that two-page spread on Damian Wayne's first year at Columbia all by itself?"

Kitrina's cheeks turned scarlet and Selina decided to switch tactics, stepping back from the accusatory edge, "I can't even browse the damned newspaper? There's a showing of _M_ this week at the Bryantown eight. I thought I might check it out."

Selina nodded, "That's fair. I didn't know you were a fan. I prefer Max Ophuls personally but Fritz Lang is very good too. I haven't yet learned to appreciate the silent pictures yet..."

Kitrina seemed satisfied with that retreat and picked up her spoon, always preferring to eat the whipped cream first, "_Words_ are overrated."

Selina gave a smirk, message received loud and clear, and she waited a beat, "It's okay you know, you can admit to liking the kid."

Kitrina growled under her breath, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"If you don't mind, I'm sure I can ask Bruce when he'll be in town next, perhaps around Spring Break. Maybe you two can hang out at the manor."

"A playdate? _Goody_."

"_Look_, do you want me to ask or not...?"

Kitrina grit her teeth and held the spoon tightly, looking quite determinedly at a nick in the rim of the mug. She mumbled.

"What was that?"

Kitrina's face began to resemble a strawberry and she shut her eyes, "I've...I haven't..."

Selina set her spoon down and made a face, "It's alright kiddo, just say it."

"I'veneverbeenwithaguy...before...around...or, um, _with_."

Selina's eyebrows shot up and she had to quickly recover, making an attempt to smooth over her surprise, she _hadn't_ expected Kitrina to be a virgin. She smiled, "That's so..." she stopped herself before she blurted out something asinine like _cute_. "That's okay too."

Kitrina looked...vulnerable, something that didn't often describe her countenance. Throughout their eight year relationship, they'd lived quite independently of one another. With Bruce's connections, they'd easily contracted a tutor and for wide swaths of time they'd traveled, trained and lived for the most part separately. Not that she hadn't kept tabs on the girl; she had, at least weekly. But that wasn't the same as raising someone. And frankly, Selina had always felt a triffle unequipped for the job. Aside from Holly and Bruce, there were scarcely any people she'd managed to hang onto and keep within a reasonable periphery. That included her sister Magdalene and for a long, unfortunate time, her brother Mario too.

Letting Mario and Maggie slip into madness had been defining failures for her and somewhat like her daughter Helena, she'd felt it would be more...beneficial, safety and otherwise, if Kitrina was in her life but also...elsewhere. The fact that she'd never known of the girl's existence until Mario brought her to Gotham and tried, pathetically, to rebuild the Roman's doomed empire didn't make it any less difficult. Their brother had abused the girl out of spite and disdain for her as an illegitimate child. A marked departure from his efforts to befriend and care for Selina in their youth. But, however abandoned, Selina was Louisa's child too. And Mario was remarkably sensitive to the distinction.

Her tutor had been with her until the older woman retired, acting pretty much as a surrogate parent in Selina's stead. And aside from holidays, this was one of their rare meetings that didn't involve the costumes. And it had never yet stopped feeling awkward.

Selina tried to soften her approach, suddenly aware of just how much she'd pigeon-holed the kid, "At your age it can be...overrated."

Kitrina's expression was unreadable and she couldn't quite seem to drag her eyes from the tabletop. Looking anywhere but at the older woman.

"I...I feel like an idiot."

"Why kiddo, you've got nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not...ashamed. I'm just...I doubt Damian Wayne's going to want to have to sit there and hold my _hand_ for God's sake."

Selina sat back and draped one arm along the back of the seat, thinking.

"And besides, I doubt he's lacking in drunken college girls...women, up at school. He's St. Anthony's Hall...I'm...not."

"May I ask, is it a religious conviction? A promise you made to yourself? I'm not saying that's a bad thing, but if you've got a good idea of why you haven't done it, I'm sure you'll be in a much better position to decide when you _want_ to...do it." Selina knew the girl was half Russian, her name being quite a tip-off, but apart from vague asides and gestures, Kitrina'd never struck her as a devotee to the Orthodox faith. But how exactly would she know when they rarely spent time together?

Kitrina shook her head, shrugging, "I've...I've never assumed, um...that too many guys really liked me that way. I mean I work out and I smell and I'm too pooped to think about prancing around, begging for some guy's attention. I've never really...gone out of my way to meet any. It was usually just me and Madamé Francesca wherever. But...there was one guy, at Terre Blanche. But he was an ***h*le."

"How so?"

"He was smart and charming and he tried to tell me that if I..." Kitrina looked around embarrassedly and tried to mouth the words and pointing at her rear end, "If I let him...it wouldn't really be sex; that I could remain a virgin."

Selina sat up straighter, "I haven't heard _that_ one before, I've heard my share of lines but...you didn't ever mention..." she caught herself, "And I never thought to ask."

Kitrina shook her head, not too perturbed, "I was embarrassed for him."

Selina finally stirred what whipped cream that remained visible into the hot liquid and sipped her beverage, "You've got quite a good head. A lot of girls might've let him get away with that."

"I'm sure it's worked a few times."

Selina made a face, "Listen, I do want to state for the record, that whatever you choose to do when you go to bed with a young man, whenever that may be, is fine. So long as you're safe and you aren't letting yourself feel...pressured or worrying about whether he'll like you anymore."

Kitrina's face became somewhat blank, "I won't...I mean, that's not even on the forecast right now. I mean, I know I could go down to any scummy bar on a Friday night and let a guy pick me up—"

"And you shouldn't," Selina interjected.

"—and I _won't_. It's just I don't even know what I want yet."

Selina nodded, "That's understandable...you'll stumble across the right guy sometime...or girl?"

Kitrina shook her head, "No. No girls. Nothing against them, just, I'm not into them. I mean Holly and Karon are cool and all but I've never felt...that way."

Selina nodded again and finished her mug, "I did mean it, about Damian. Just say the word."

Kitrina made another face she didn't recognize, "That's so...didn't you date his _dad_? That'd make me, like, my own future step-_aunt_ or something."

Selina sat back more fully into the seat and let herself think, just for a moment, of Bruce in that old romantic sense. They'd had a very involved, tumultuous relationship. One that eventually stretched the spectrum from playboy and escort to...partners. Emotionally, mentally and physically. Not in the sense of a costumed partner like Robin, though that aspect inevitably influenced their mutual understanding. Their bond extended to ordinary life as well. But it had also made things much more complicated than they would have liked. And she hadn't been seriously interested in any other man for a long time. Though they had cooled on one another, particularly after his "death" and reappearance, they had remained in touch regularly. It wasn't enough, but it was what they had to settle for...for now.

That wasn't something she was going to be able to put words to and didn't try now, "Yes. We more or less have a certain feeling for one another. But that has nothing to do with you. And I wouldn't want you dismiss your feelings just because of an incidental factor like that."

Kitrina didn't say anything for a long time, "I...just think he's...attractive. I don't know why."

Selina gave a small smile, knowing that Damian was Robin and was also quite likely to succeed his father and take on the cowl himself someday. She knew she oughtn't to encourage the kid, knowing that she was merely setting her up for a very long wait indeed.

But she also knew that the level of mutual consideration she and Bruce shared due to their occupations, even now, wasn't something she was willing to trade. They'd each had to sacrifice almost every personal relationship for the right to live their lives doing as they saw fit. She didn't even know whether the kid planned on sticking with the nightlife. But Damian had been practically cast and bronzed in his father's image. Superficially speaking though, they seemed to be a decent match.

But the kid was two years younger than Kitrina, and just beginning manhood. He was arrogant, self-important and unfortunately all too aware of his talents and abilities, sometimes to the point of impetuousness.

Kitrina, alternately, was a master escape artist, able to unbind herself from ropes and ties that even Selina had taken years to overcome. Her size, of course, was an advantage. She was a very quick learner, cautious and measured, and her skills in the martial arts were generally seamless, preferring efficiency over flair. And unlike her male counterpart, she knew when to taunt her enemy and when to shut up and fight.

While Selina had consciously steered her away from outright thievery, she knew neither of them felt terribly comfortably accepting the title of "hero." Since Kitrina had returned from Europe, Selina had been slowly reintegrating her into the fabric of the East End. And while the place had hardly welcomed her constant _intrusions_ since those wretched early days, her efforts had begun to bear fruition over time.

"Well, I'll at least warn you, I've known that boy since he was ten years old. He has quite a nasty streak, but that's mellowed over the years somewhat. He...I'll admit he doesn't have the best reputation."

"Neither does his father," Kitrina answered matter-of-factly, staring at Selina head on.

Selina was actually referring to Damian's reputation amongst the wider world of the costumed set. His father's name was his saving grace more often than not. But, even now, he was unpopular and seemed to cultivate it. Even though Bruce was quick to show his displeasure at what he deemed as "outside" interference, he was savvy enough to keep the channels of communication open. She knew Damian was a stone wall in that respect.

By way of replying, however, she merely nodded, "I know. But that would be a small thing if you really liked one another and if you were...given a reason to stay. And what they print in the gossip sheets..."

"I know, I know..."

"Just reacquaint yourself with him…or don't. It's your choice kiddo. I'll respect whatever decision you make."

The girl hunched her shoulders and leaned back into the seat, "Hmph."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The second half was inspired by a beautiful article called "Odd Blood: Serodiscordancy[…]" by John Fram, in _The Atlantic_ that I couldn't tear my eyes from this afternoon. Exams be damned. I've shortened the title rather clunkily, but that shouldn't stop you for checking it out. The first half was all the product of a rather boring Microeconomics lecture, which no doubt colors Damian's disdain. The discipline itself is fine, the delivery…eh, not so much. The brief line Bruce makes regarding the hangover is pure Peggy versus Anita, "Mad Men" S2.**

He wasn't the sort of young man who yearned for _home_. Not, at least, openly. Could he, if pressed, ultimately describe the place? Once, his place had been with mother and the League of Assassins. No...not the latter. And not even really the former. Not truly. He was a place-_holder_.

Mother was beautiful, cold and exacting. Mother was perennially displeased, with him, with father, even herself. She loved _her_father, Damian guessed, but that was such a...strange word.

Mother had even gone so far as to build a new and better boy after him. He guessed that figure was out there somewhere. That _something_that couldn't possibly be described as a brother.

He hated thinking too much about that pink mass of parts that somehow constituted a baby, a human child. It made him think of himself…his own doubts about his being. Occasionally, his pangs regarding his conception.

He knew what intercourse was, he'd methodically discarded his virginity while at Andover, risking expulsion to sneak into town overnight. He'd become, at least for a few months, the regular of a whore named Dawn. She broke it off finally, disdainful of his overtly aggressive manner and his habits of leaving marks.

He'd seen the romanticized depictions in the movies and on television but always thought of sex as a frivolous necessity. When the urge warmed his torso, itching his manhood, he followed the other fellows in his fraternity to the bars and clubs of Manhattan, initially mimicking their efforts to seduce but eventually discovering that his features and name more than made up for the stiff formality of his personality.

His distaste for the girls was sufficiently masked until after he'd made it to bed, barely crafting an excuse that night or, heaven forbid, the next morning.

He knew he ought not to indulge in alcohol, agreeing with his father's teetotaling but finding it much harder to practice. One beer might become four or-on a bad night-one shot might see half a fifth of scotch killed before he'd even left his room. His roommate was a never-ending supplier of amusements of the narcotic variety but he stuck with liquor, finding it more than enough of a release.

He'd never thought of pleasant things, like warmth and affection. Not through the years at school or now at college. Suddenly, the prospect of returning home for the Easter holiday (at least the Latin observance) and Spring Break loomed before him.

He'd chosen to spend Thanksgiving and even Christmas is New York, stung but not too surprised when father relented. He had been surprised at the old man's...reluctance to let him stay. Bruce had, as always, patiently accepted the decision, but he did not go so far as to ask his son to reconsider. And so they'd parted over the telephone.

A neat bundle of gifts had been delivered, obviously selected and wrapped by Pennyworth. In the back of his mind, he'd guessed that the older man had taken the time to gingerly fold each corner, no doubt afflicted by arthritis but stubbornly unwilling to let the young man go unremembered. There was a small card from father, a long telephone call from Grayson and a short one from Stephanie. Otherwise, the day passed dull and gray, the lack of snow making the skyline appear hard and dead beyond his window.

Now spring had arrived, sopping wet and fickle, cool and warm in none too pleasant bursts. And there was only so much wit that could be had over a pint within the confines of St. A's. Not to mention throughout the course of the term. After his thirtieth girl they'd begun to run together in a slight blur, punctuated by one's whining penchant for cocaine or the other's piggish squeal of a laugh, shaking him out of his blur. She suggested breakfast and he advised he had a plane to catch.

He declined to say that it wasn't scheduled for at least a week.

In the bathroom back at the brownstone on Riverside Drive he'd vomited profusely before blacking out beside the bathtub.

-#-

Waking up was hard to do. His hired valet George and another lad named Donovan had found him and thrown cold water on him. Starting awake, his palm found a cold, slimy mass and he realized there was more vomit on the floor. So he'd landed in the recovery position. Lucky. He didn't suppose father would be too overjoyed at the news that his son had died such an ignoble death as choking on his own sick.

Donovan's bare feet and pajama-clad ankles stepped gingerly across his field of vision. He'd clumsily attempted to loosen his tie and George shooed his hands aside, deftly undoing the buttons of his dress shirt while Donovan prepared a cold washcloth. No one talked but his head pounded mercilessly at the faint screeching of the sink tap.

That night he and Donovan sat up and didn't drink for once and the latter smiled, holding a cigarette, wrist tilted in that curiously effeminate manner of certain English gentleman, "Won't your daddy-kins be angry?"

His grades were impeccable save a few mediocre marks thrown in for good measure. He'd grown bored and declined to turn in a few assignments in the microeconomics course.

His father was telephoned and Grayson was dispatched to pick him up being as close as he was in Bludhaven.

Their car ride to the airport and the short flight home and the ride out to Bristol was overwhelmingly silent. Grayson didn't need to admonish him and didn't care to make him feel worse. At the service door the man who came closest to defining the word _brother_for him stopped him with a hand at his shoulder, "I've had a few cold ones myself from time to time. But there's no need for..."

Damian nodded and there was no need to finish the statement. They stepped into the house and Grayson disappeared somewhere.

And he was back at what most would call _home_.

The kitchen was in its usual pristine state. The tilework clicked familiarly beneath his shoes and he slipped out of them before crossing the room. He wasn't _afraid_, but he preferred to find his father before the man found him.

He walked calmly but deliberately through the great room, up the stairs, down the hall. He found his bedroom doors, surprised that Pennyworth hadn't intercepted him, steering him into the study for a nice talk with father about his responsibilities to himself and others.

And there the man was sitting on his bed. Damian's spine stiffened and he fought the urge to step back slightly, "Hm. Good day father."

Bruce was starring, brow furrowed, into his palms. The fingers were laced lazily together and he'd seemed to have been sitting there for some time. He took a deep breath and looked up at the young man, "Good afternoon. Alfred's...taken ill."

Damian's eyebrows rose and his voice was cautious, "When...is it serious?"

Bruce nodded solemnly, "A stroke. Last night. He's resting comfortably. It wasn't...too bad. He'll...I think it would be unkind to continue to ask of his services, considering his age..."

"Grayson didn't mention-"

"I preferred to tell you myself."

Damian set down his bag, a brown leather duffle by _Lotuff & Clegg_. Bruce's eyes rested on the luggage piece and he made some sort of noise that may have been a sigh, "Selina gave that to me one birthday. I've wondered what happened to it."

"...Is that all father?"

Bruce stood somewhat slowly, the vague gray at his temples accentuated in the noon light. Father really was getting old too. How long until Damian sat contemplating his own father's health?

Bruce walked toward him, stopping at his side and Damian sucked in his breath sharply. "I don't want to hear of your behaving as you did again. I've never imagined you had a death wish, at least not since you were a child."

His cheeks reddened, the shame setting into him fully, "No father."

"I do not have much say where Alfred's mortality, nor mine or even yours is concerned. But I would prefer that you..." he looked at the young man head on, "You're not a fool boy. I'd much rather you didn't masquerade as one. You're to remain on the grounds. You're in no shape to join me tonight."

"That's not necessary father."

"It's not up for discussion..." Bruce sighed again, this time more openly, "You're hungover...I can smell it."

-#-

Sitting in his father's study, Bruce ran a cordial hand under Titus's jaw, glad for the company. Dispite Dick's and now Damian's presence, the manor as of late had been stubbornly empty. Save, of course, Alfred.

The older man's condition had stabilized and Bruce had even tolerated a phone call from Leslie Thompkins, assuring her repeatedly that the older man would recover. But she wanted to fly home and was doing so, whether he liked it or not. He supposed, somewhere in the back of his mind, that some wretched part of him would be glad to see her.

His bitterness at her handling of Stephanie's injuries nonwithstanding, she had still been the only steady mother-figure he'd had as a youth. And even Stephanie had pointed out, somewhat violently, that his anger at Dr. Thompkins's betrayal had been far greater than the emotion he'd displayed regarding her _actual_death. Dr. Thompkins had cruelly tossed aside her Hippocratic Oath, and he privately guessed, his own regard for her as one of the few living links to his father left.

Thomas Wayne, stubbornly obligated to follow his morals, had saved the life of Carmine Falcone. How different might Gotham have been had the man been allowed to die? But Bruce could never find comfort in such a thought.

He sighed then, shutting his eyes chidingly. Realizing and attempting to halt what he now inwardly-and just as involuntarily-referred to as a "circlejerk of self-pity." A term coined by his former protégé Jason. As vulgar as the statement had been, it fit his behavior to a tee.

The telephone rang and the dog whined. He was glad for the interruption.

-#-

"I really don't want to talk to Selina about this again, I mean…" Kitrina pushed another soggy steak fry around her plate, drawing a lopsided smiley in the smudge of ketchup at the edge. Last night's dinner.

Karon was pouring a second bowl of Cheerios for breakfast instead, the other half of her banana at the ready. It was Saturday morning and she was up at the butt crack of dawn for this kid, this almost-niece of hers, "No, I get it. You're a little traumatized."

The younger girl smiled, still embarrassed, still not sure how to process the strange feeling of warmth and awkwardness that characterized her relationship with her sister. Selina cared. She was probably the best thing that had ever happened in Kitrina's life but she also wasn't interested in mushiness and saccharine gestures. The girl had needed the _talk_and she had gotten it.

Now she just couldn't get over it.

Karon jumped up to sit on the counter and let her legs swing back and forth, "I uh, I'm going to be honest. I haven't been with a guy since I was a teenager and even _then_, it wasn't that great. Guys your age are…sex is a means to an end."

"Isn't that the case with everyone?" Kitrina asked plainly.

Karon's eyebrows rose, "Uh…yeah. Um. Yes. It is. If you want to be _literal_about it. But it's about more than that…if you're lucky."

Kitrina was sitting on one of a pair of bright yellow vinyl stools that she and Holly had dug out of a yard sale somewhere between Gotham and Philadelphia. They'd stopped over at the ungodly hour of eleven a.m. at the redhead's behest. She still remembered the surprised but no less warm look of the farm couple that had sold them the set. Yes they were together; no they were not _just_ friends.

Karon smiled; Holly'd still been a sunny redhead then, now her hair was some smattering of pink and black. She let the silence lull briefly as she thought of the countless late mornings and early afternoons spent languid and intertwined, neither nary a dollar in the bank nor a crumb in the cupboard. Tracing the strangeness of Holly's forearms, with veins almost entirely calcified on the left side.

Life with a former junkie. She thanked God that was all they had to deal with as the woman had somehow managed to escape street life seronegative… Then came the time after the Black Mask and watching her girlfriend sleep away the day, red rimmed eyes and the waiting game. Checking the bottle of opiates daily, counting. One day at a time but no bite. Everyone was entitled to a f**k up now and then, she'd reasoned to herself. And it'd turned out after all and then she'd never seen anyone brighter after Holly and Selina'd come back from that road trip. Then, the Great Recession had hit them like a brick, and like so much else in their time together, it'd been a slow climb back…

There was a time when signing up for benefits would have seemed beneath them…now there was nothing lower or higher. They'd simply resolved to let it go at that.

She realized she'd been silent too long and went the direct route, "What do you want to know? I'm not willing to roll a condom on a banana but I can at least give you a few finer points."

Kitrina winced and laughed despite herself, "It hurts…right? I've heard that it hurts. Believe it or not, I'm a pain-wuss."

Karon smiled, softly and openly, "Yes. Again, if you're lucky, not too much. Hell, if you're lucky, you'll have a nice beachside sunrise to kind of distract you. If you're like most women, however, all you'll have is a lovely bedroom ceiling. Trés _romantique_! I recommend taking a couple of pain reliever…"

Kitrina shook her head and seemed to drop down into thought and Karon stared momentarily before asking, "Are there…uh, prospects? You've never seemed to...uh, care before…?"

Kitrina shrugged, "I thought we were just going out for burgers and milkshakes, next thing I know, Selina's bringing up the _birds_ and the _bees_. She's…concerned."

"That's probably a good description…"

Kitrina pushed her plate away and folded her arms, "I know about her…and I know about Holly and their past. I know she's just trying to tell me the things she'd wish she'd known or something."

Karon nodded.

Kitrina began to squint and she made a face that Karon couldn't read, "Do you think…Mr. Wayne knows? I mean, from what I've heard about him, he probably wouldn't care but…I know she misses him…I'm sorry, I'm way off-base, I know."

Karon shook her head, "I guess he had to ask himself the same thing I had to ask myself…if you could change it, you would. But you can't, so why bother worrying?"

"I…just hate the idea that…I've sort of thought for a long time now, that's what's up between them. You know? It's not like she's seeing anyone else…" the girl sighed, "God, she can take care of herself, I know. She's been doing it since day one."

Karon shrugged, finishing the bowl but leaving the milk, "I'm admittedly closer to you and Holly than I am to Selina…I mean. I'm not saying she's unapproachable or anything but…maybe it isn't him, maybe it's what she wants."

Kitrina nodded, "I should mind my own business…but she wants to set me up or something, with his _son_."

Karon appeared taken aback, "Why?"

Kitrina slouched slightly, "She thinks I have crush."

Karon gave a smirk, "And where'd she get that idea?"

"…"

Karon's eyes widened just for a split-second, "Uh-huh. I've got a funny feeling she's not too far off base."

"Just because I think a guy's…vaguely attractive…doesn't mean I'm going to _sleep_ with him."

Karon smiled, "Doesn't mean you're not either."

"What does _that_ mean?"

"It _means_ women sometimes go home with men they shouldn't…and sometimes they go home with men they should. But it's nothing to worry about really. Just wait long enough to tell the difference and you'll be better off than a lot of girls."

Kitrina slumped further over the table, "Nevermind the fact that my sister's contemplating my sex life for God's sake. No, she's got to plan the damned thing out for me. I'm inept."

"Cool it kiddo, you're only twenty-one for pete's sake. You're hardly a spinster."

Kitrina began biting her cuticle and didn't say anything else.

"You're worrying too much. Maybe you won't even like him. Maybe he's just a pretty face."

"Maybe so."

"But promise me one thing, I mean it, seriously."

"Yeah?"

"Don't try to blow a good thing up, if it turns out, I mean…don't try to stop it just because you're scared. And just because it looks like a sh*tstorm doesn't mean it is. At least give it an honest try. Just promise me you won't let yourself like or dislike him until you've given him a chance."

"That's two things."

"Smart*ss."


End file.
